Evil Intent (32 page)

‘Oh, no,’ Callie breathed, and fumbled in her handbag for some change.

After their acrimonious lunch, Neville and Cowley went back to Neville’s office. Neville was in favour of going to see Evans and asking him to
authorise
releasing Frances Cherry; Cowley was strenuously opposed. ‘We need one more crack at her,’ he insisted. ‘She’s bound to cave in and admit that she’s been shagging Leo Jackson.’

‘The more you badger her about it, the more she denies it,’ Neville pointed out.

‘Oh, you noticed?’

Neville did not appreciate the sarcasm:
he
was meant to be the sarcastic one. Cowley was getting altogether too big for his boots, he reflected. Next thing you knew, he’d be taking on Evans and telling him what to do.

Someone had been into Neville’s office, had left a tabloid on his desk. ‘What’s this?’ he said, picking it up.

Cowley was still in sarcastic mode. ‘Looks like a newspaper to me. But maybe you know better.’

Neville didn’t even hear him; he was reading the headline, looking at the photo. ‘Oh, God,’ he said as he scanned the first lines of the story. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Neville repeated it for emphasis. He quickly read through the teaser on the front page, then turned to the interior pages, where the story merited a double-page spread – complete with a large photo of the wronged man, looking very vulnerable and extremely young.

‘What?’ Cowley, his pique forgotten, tried to read over his shoulder.

‘Listen to this. “‘He invited me to the rectory to talk about faith, about joining the church,’ said anguished Oliver Pickett. ‘But he couldn’t leave me alone. He kept touching me. He was all over me, like an animal.’

“‘I was afraid of him. I didn’t know what he’d do to me – how he’d hurt me – if I said no. So I played along with him. I knew it was wrong, but I
didn’t
have a choice.’” Bloody hell,’ Neville added again. ‘Then it says, “Oliver Pickett’s eyes filled with tears as he told me, ‘It was horrible, the things he made me do. Things against nature. People like that shouldn’t be allowed to be priests. They shouldn’t even be allowed on the streets. It’s disgusting.’”’

Cowley rocked back on his heels, trying to process the information. ‘Leo Jackson’s a bloody poofter!’

‘So it would seem.’ Neville laughed mirthlessly. ‘And if that’s true, Sid, then we’ve been barking up the wrong tree.’

With a long, low whistle, Cowley sat down and reached in his pocket for his cigarettes. ‘I need a fag, Guv. To help me think.’

Neville read the story through to the end. ‘Well,’ he said, shaking his head in bemusement. ‘Unless Lilith Noone has made this one up out of whole cloth, I’d say that our case against Frances Cherry has just gone straight out of the window.’

Cowley took a long drag and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke through narrowed eyes. ‘Not necessarily Guv,’ he said at last.

‘What do you mean? If Jackson is…that way inclined, then he and Frances Cherry aren’t having an affair. There goes our reason for blackmail. No affair, no blackmail.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Cowley repeated.

‘Okay. Tell me what you’re thinking.’

Using his cigarette for emphasis, Cowley outlined his new theory. ‘We
both thought that Cherry and Jackson weren’t telling the truth about what happened that night – that they were hiding something.’

‘Yes …?’

‘So let’s say we’ve been looking at it the wrong way round. Say they
were
hiding something, but it wasn’t that they were shagging each other. They were hiding the fact that Jackson’s queer.’

Neville took a deep breath of Cowley’s second-hand smoke. ‘You’re saying that Frances Cherry knew that?’

‘She must have, if they were such good chums – like she keeps telling us. She might have even known about this Oliver Pickett, and what Jackson did to him. Jackson was probably with Pickett later that night, and that’s what the two of them – Cherry and Jackson – have been keeping from us.’

‘Then where does Jonah Adimola come into it?’

Cowley grinned. ‘This is the good part, Guv. Say Adimola found out about Jackson shagging Pickett.’

‘We’re back to blackmail.’ Neville nodded; it all made sense. At least as much sense as the previous theory, if not more.

‘It could have been blackmail. Or Adimola might have just threatened him that he’d blab, because it was wrong. Everyone says he was a self-
righteous
bastard, and he was known to be against gays. I suppose the
powers-that-be
in the Church would have taken a pretty dim view of that sort of carry-on, if he’d made it public.’

‘Even those who are in favour of committed gay relationships couldn’t condone this,’ Neville thought aloud. ‘It’s practically child abuse.’

‘I could imagine Jackson – or Jackson and Cherry – killing him just to keep his mouth shut.’

‘And what if,’ Neville added, ‘Jackson already knew that he was going to be appointed a bishop? That would be a pretty strong motive for shutting Jonah Adimola up. Permanently.’

Cowley inhaled luxuriantly. ‘I think we’re on to something, Guv.’ He exhaled, then added, ‘Are you going to ask Evans to let us bring Jackson in?’

‘Not yet,’ Neville decided. That would take too much time, with the clock running on Frances Cherry’s detention. ‘Let’s have another good go at Frances Cherry, now that we have some new questions to ask her. We can
always go after Jackson a bit later.’

Cowley stood. ‘Okay, Guv. Let’s do it.’

‘I never thought I’d say this.’ Neville’s mouth twisted in a sheepish smile and he waved the tabloid in the air. ‘But thank you, Lilith Noone.’

Lilith herself, unaware of how much joy she had brought to Neville, was still working on her story for the next day’s paper when her editor rang.

‘Good work,’ he said, first thing. ‘Everyone’s talking about it. That’s exactly what the
Globe
should be all about.’

‘There’s more,’ she assured him. ‘I’ve saved some of the best bits.’

There was a short silence on the other end. ‘The thing is, Lilith, we have a couple of new developments that you might be interested in.’

‘Yes?’

‘First of all, Frances Cherry has been arrested. The police have issued a statement saying that a forty-eight-year-old woman is helping them with their enquiries into the Adimola murder.’

A few short days ago, that would have delighted Lilith. Now it seemed like small potatoes. ‘Oh,’ she said.

‘You can take a great deal of the credit for that, I believe,’ he went on.  ‘So I’d like you to see what you can do with it. You know the sort of thing I mean – the sort of thing you’ve been doing up till now. Don’t name her, but imply as much as you want to. As much as you can get away with, under the law.’

‘Yes, all right.’

‘And the other thing is, the Church of England has just released a
statement.
Leo Jackson has withdrawn as Bishop of Brixton.’

Now that was a bit more interesting. And she certainly felt that she could take full credit for it. It was what she’d wanted, what she’d been
trying
to achieve. Still, Lilith felt a tiny twinge of disappointment in the ease of her victory: she’d been sure that Leo Jackson would have put up a bit more fight than that.

She would have to rewrite her story for tomorrow to reflect his
capitulation.
Well, she reflected, all was not lost. She could still use ‘Bishop of Buggery’. As in ‘Bishop of Buggery Backs Out in Sordid Sex Scandal’.

Leo sat at the upstairs window with its magnificent view of Hyde Park and watched the rain come down. It fell steadily from a bruised looking sky, dripping from the trees even as, with the help of the north wind, it stripped them of their multicoloured leaves. The leaves dropped in showers, until it seemed there could be no more remaining, but still they tumbled, coating the ground with a beautiful but treacherous carpet of glistening colours. People scurried through the park, almost blown along by gusts of wind, their umbrellas occasionally turning inside out and leaving them
defenceless.
Some of them slipped on the wet leaves and fell, getting up quickly and resuming their ant like progress towards a drier place – shelter, sanctuary.

For hours he had not moved. The hurting had not yet started. He was like a man whose legs had been blown off in battle, knowing what had
happened
– seeing the incontrovertible evidence with his own eyes – yet strangely numb.

Leo was a hollow man, reamed out, an empty receptacle waiting to be filled with pain. He knew that it would come. Teetering on the edge of the abyss, he sensed it was only a matter of time before he tumbled in.

For now, though, his world had shrunk to one sodden landscape, one word, and one name. ‘Why, Oliver? Why? Why?’

Frances ate her lunch mechanically, scarcely knowing what she was putting in her mouth.

It had been bad, but not as bad as it might have been. Sergeant Cowley had been foul – offensive in his suggestions about her and Leo. She’d heard it all before, though, and had been prepared. Same questions, same answers. ‘No, we aren’t.’ ‘No, I didn’t.’ ‘No.’ ‘No.’

Triona had assured her that, if they didn’t come up with anything
better,
they would have to let her go. There were no grounds for holding her any longer. She could be home by teatime. Home with Graham, revelling in the ordinariness and familiarity of the vicarage.

Then Sergeant Pratt came into her little room and sat down, looking grave. ‘I have some bad news for you, Frances,’ she said.

Frances bit her lip. ‘What?’

‘I’m afraid that I’ve had to authorise custody for a further nine hours.’

‘But why?’ She had been so sure that Salome Pratt would be her
champion,
would make sure she was home this afternoon. Now she felt betrayed.

‘I had no choice,’ the sergeant explained unhappily. ‘They have new
evidence,
or at least a new line of enquiry.’

‘They’re just saying that!’

‘I’m afraid not.’ Sergeant Pratt didn’t go into details. ‘Your detention will be reviewed again tonight, by Sergeant Thorp. I’m sure he’ll make
certain
you’re treated fairly.’

Tonight. The word sank in painfully. Was she going to be here overnight? She gulped. ‘Are you going to put me in a cell?’

Sergeant Pratt avoided her eyes. ‘I think it would be best at this point, Frances. This room isn’t very comfortable, and the cells have pretty well emptied out of last night’s rowdy crowd.’

‘But what about…my things? Am I just supposed to wear the same clothes until you decide to let me go home?’ She tried to keep her voice
reasonable,
but heard a note of hysteria creeping in at the end.

‘You’ll have an opportunity to shower. And if you’d like to ring your husband and ask him to bring a change of clothes …’ The sergeant
indicated
the telephone.

Oh, brilliant, Frances thought. Graham would be in enough of a state without adding that to it.

She would ring Callie instead. Callie could go over and break it to Graham gently, then help him with putting together the things she would need for an overnight stay.

‘Yes, of course I’ll help,’ Callie said without hesitation. The phone call had been a surprise; she certainly wasn’t expecting to hear from Frances directly.

Now she was glad that the Harringtons hadn’t been at home, that she was free to do as Frances requested, and do it immediately. She didn’t
relish
going back out into the rain, but needs must, and there was nothing she wouldn’t do for Frances.

It was only after she’d hung up that she realised she hadn’t mentioned anything to Frances about Leo and the
Globe.
Perhaps it was just as well.
Frances had enough on her plate without that. She was better off not knowing.

It was time to return to the interview room. Now that she no longer felt that Sergeant Pratt was on her side, Frances relied even more on the
reassuring
competence of Triona to get her through what was to come.

Triona gave her arm a squeeze as they went into the room. ‘It will be fine,’ she whispered. ‘Just keep your cool.’

Everyone took the same seats, and once again DI Stewart fiddled with the tape recording equipment, identifying the people present and noting the time.

This time, though, Frances sensed a change in the atmosphere. DI Stewart was visibly more engaged; he exchanged significant looks with DS Cowley. There was something going on, and it made her nervous.

‘Reverend Cherry,’ DI Stewart began, ‘we’ve been asking you questions about your relationship with the Reverend Leo Jackson. You maintain that you have never had a physical relationship with him, but that you are friends.’

‘That’s right,’ Frances confirmed yet again. ‘I’ve known him for years. We’re good friends. Nothing more than that.’

DI Stewart glanced at DS Cowley and gave a tiny nod. Cowley leaned forward and spoke smoothly. ‘Mrs Cherry, if you and Leo Jackson are such good friends, then you must be aware that he is gay. Homosexual.’

Frances gasped. How on earth …?

She thought quickly. What should she say? How could she continue to protect Leo, without getting herself in any deeper than she already was?

There was a long pause before she replied. ‘Yes,’ she said cautiously. ‘Yes, I am aware that he has that…orientation.’ She wasn’t making any admissions about his behaviour; surely Leo couldn’t be held to blame for his inclinations, if that was as far as it went.

‘So you’ve been trying to protect a friend,’ DI Stewart said in a warm, soothing voice. ‘You didn’t want to tell us the real reason why it was
impossible
that you and Leo Jackson should be lovers.’

He understood! Frances turned to him in relief. ‘That’s right. I
couldn’t
say. It wouldn’t have been fair to Leo to have betrayed his friendship by
telling you that. If he wanted you to know, it was up to him to tell you.’

DI Stewart nodded, and Frances felt affirmed.

But Cowley wasn’t finished with her. ‘Since you were such good friends, you must also have known about Leo Jackson’s…association…with a man called Oliver Pickett.’

Frances hoped her expression hadn’t betrayed her surprise. Had they been talking to Leo, then? Had he told them about Oliver in the hopes that it would let her off the hook? Was Leo being incredibly noble, sacrificing himself and his career for her?

Or were they just setting a clever trap for her?

Cowley asked a direct question. ‘Did you know about Leo Jackson and Oliver Pickett?’

She turned to Triona. ‘Do I have to answer that?’

Triona shook her head. ‘You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to.’

‘Then I would prefer not to answer.’

Cowley lunged forward, almost snarling. ‘Are you aware that
withholding
information which has a vital bearing on our investigation is a very
serious
matter?’

‘I’m not withholding information. I just don’t feel it’s my place to
discuss
my friend’s private life. If you want to know about that, you’ll have to ask
him
.’